Above All Else, Truth
by Slittlej
Summary: Please read if Rachel and Tom puts a smile on your face, even if the smile is tentative. Rachel S. and T. Chandler
1. Chapter 1

Moaning, Rachel shut her eyes, sprawled out on her bunk, listening to the creaks and squeaks of the Nathan James as it skittishly navigated rough seas. She covered her eyes with her forearm, reveling in her not so small victory. Oh, no—it was huge, make no mistake, the hugest. She'd discovered 'The Cure' for the pandemic scourge several hours ago and she still couldn't believe it. Now, nearly zero two hundred hours, she was still wide awake, painfully aware that her mind and body demanded that she get quality sleep. How many hours of sleep of that type had she gotten since this mission had begun? Precious little. Thus far, she'd barely been comatose an hour and a half, though it felt as if she'd been sleeping for days. Groggy, Rachel sighed. Aside from her achieving hard-won success, something else on her mind prickled. Her breathing hitched momentarily when she thought back, reliving the encounter with the captain, who had been desperate to know if the survival of the 6 meant salvation for those who remained on the planet. From all reports, terrestrial population was dwindling faster each day. All Rachel had seen in his intense crystal clear eyes had been strain mingled with torture. Every touch, each glance, every emotionally charged word from Captain T. Chandler left her wanting more. She scolded herself, ever mindful that his wedding band was not for show. He loved his wife dearly. He didn't have to say it, the captain lived and breathed it. He would go to hell and back for her and their two children.

Not knowing his woman, she envied her, wondered what about her had attracted Thomas Chandler. Rachel rolled her head from side to side, imagining, and speculating if perhaps she possessed hints of those qualities and attributes. Grimly, she decided, she'd better stop thinking like this, or risk complete and utter dysfunction. Easier said than done, she lamented, again going over what she was thinking, welded with the lack of rational thought. Was she crazy, or was she burned-out, allowing herself to feel anything other than admiration and high regard for the hunky man's man? He was all that a naval officer needed to be, this stalwart commander, who was stealing a little more of her somber heart day-by-day. She knew that in no way was he pouring on the charm. Some days, it was the opposite when stress, fatigue and the unknown preyed on him.

"Rach," she muttered, hearing the firmness in her voice. She'd given herself that nickname at the age of 8, had her relatives using it by the time she'd turned 9. "You'd better get a grip. Remain calm and carry on... And I don't mean _carry on_, carry on with him. There will be _no_ affair." Pursing her lips, Rachel half-smiled as the ship funneled into the trough of a 30-foot wave beginning to crest, poised to crash over the Nathan James' foredeck. Right, they had kissed, _in the line of duty_ and had hugged just a while ago because in his eyes she'd come through to save the day, optimistically followed by many more to save the infected. It was best not to dwell on those unpredictable incidences, which underscored her bouts with melancholia, a by-product of the life of dedication, toil and commitment she'd chosen of her own free will.

She moved, shuddered as she shifted onto her right side in the cramped space. The ship rose and the pit of her stomach sank lower. Why was she this nauseated, so disoriented? After all this, why was she suffering from seasickness? If indeed that was what this was. The Nathan James pitched and rolled, never deviating from its mad slicing through the storm-churned ocean. Rachel clutched her stomach, forcing herself not to hurl, which wasn't easy. She felt as though she might at any moment. What had she eaten? Then she remembered; she hadn't, not a morsel since morning. She'd forgone lunch too and had picked at, and nibbled dinner. Was it any wonder her practically empty stomach growled? What with all the constant research, deliberation and experimentation, Rachel was becoming a gaunt semblance of her former, appreciably more vibrant and fuller-figure self. She loved food, all sorts, Italian cuisine especially. Abstinence from sustenance wasn't her norm, but since the whole world had changed, for the worse, so had her eating habits. They'd become dreadful, unwise, but a result of crisis upon crisis. She devoted her waking thoughts to ridding the world of this malignant malady, and on this singular day, she dared to believe she had.

They possessed the virus-specific panacea, rushing full steam ahead to deliver it stateside.

The buffeted ship bore up, slip-sliding as it rode these obscenely turbulent waves. Rachel grunted, ruing her grumbling gut and her treacherous feelings. Stealing the affections of a woman's husband was beneath her. A woman who would do such a thing was poison, with a capital p. If that was how she really felt, why wasn't she squashing all thought of making herself more desirable to the handsome, virile captain of the Nathan James? Guilt washed over her and Rachel, distractedly, drew the navy-issued covers closer against her neck, cocooning herself with it, finally. Could she just be fond of him, and leave it at that? She'd work on it, work really hard at it, because her actions would set the tone. Didn't the woman always set the tone in matters of the heart, or was that only true in romance novels and romantic comedic movies? Well, supposedly romantically comedic. In a split second, she recalled having seen a movie not all that long ago, touting the premise that a woman should think like a man. Okay, she'd do it, making sure she did nothing that might suggest she was leading the captain on. Although he was a 'big boy,' quite capable of not having the wool pulled over his eyes, Rachel wouldn't hand him a cap.

Snug in her little bunk, she yawned, about to begin counting sheep. She got as far as 'one,' when the knock came on her cabin door. Alertly, she called out, "Who is it?"

"It's me. Tuh—uh—Captain Chandler." He sucked in a deep breath and stared holes into the barrier separating them. His throat was killing him, deep within it. Unshed tears stung his eyes. His heart shambled as it beat.

_Tom_, raced through her mind. Her heart bucking, she tore out of the bunk, the first foot hitting the floor, skidding, as she sent the wool blanket diving to the floor. She almost tripped, her feet getting tangled. "I'll be right there," Rachel stammered, grimacing, certain that he must have heard how breathless she sounded. _Keep calm, keep calm_, she upbraided. "Just a sec." She smoothed out her T-shirt and sweats, made sure her ponytail wasn't lopsided, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Frowning fiercely, she lurched for the door, the Nathan James helping with that. The sea had become rougher. Taking deeper breaths, she settled herself, the static in her brain coalescing.

"I know it's late. If I've awakened you, I'm sorry." Anguish tinged his contrite words. Noiselessly, he rammed the blunt end of his fist into the door, followed by the perspired side of his sheeny face. "I have to speak with you. It's important," he said, all choked up. _Urgent_, his mind re-emphasized. "_Please_..." Wearily, he scrubbed his face with his other hand and internalized, _There's nobody else on this ship who can really assure me. There's only you—only you_…

Nodding as she opened the door, Rachel was immediately struck by the commander's misery-riddled countenance. Her practiced, aloof attitude morphed into one of acute concern. "Wha-?" Chandler veritably toppled into her cramped quarters, forcing her to spring out of his way. While wrapping her arms about herself, rocking slightly on the balls of her feet, she demanded, "What is it?" Hysteria tinctured her words. Had the newly-cured patients fallen gravely ill again? Her heart raced along with her mind.

"You're one hundred percent sure this is the cure?" jumbled from his mouth. His forehead was a sea of deep creases. "Not only a vaccine, but you can cure people." There was no hint of it being a question.

Softly, ever so softly, which she had discovered was the best way of arresting his full attention, she deferentially replied, "As certain as I can be under these conditions, Captain." A pervasive warmth spread from her heart, outward. He looked lost, needing coddling. "What's wrong?" Instinctively she knew there must be something terribly amiss. His manner was all over the place where rigid control usually was.

The captain broke down, his composure destroyed, his will to be strong demolished. No longer the man of elegant steely resolve and purpose, he crumpled before her very eyes. The demoralization in his voice brought Rachel to his side, a comforting hand reaching for him. His eyes searched hers as they filled with tears. "It's—it's my family." He forced strength into his timbre. "Darien, Ashley and Sam…" His voice got very small, tight and rough. "Dad was able to get through to us. They're all infected—_my_ family! They're sick—they're dying!"

With no further thought, Rachel gathered him into her arms tenderly, whispering encouragement that it was going to be all right. Said as convincingly as she could make it. Decisive, Tom grappled her body to himself like she was a life preserver, intent on cleaving to her with every ounce of strength he had. "We'll get to them on time," she murmured, fully realizing now that despite this wicked storm, it was full speed ahead. Gradually, they moved as one, she coaxing him to sit on her bunk.

"What if we don't? What if we don't?" he whimpered, like a frightened child. In his mind's eyes, he pictured his loved ones suffering in agony the way the 6 had.

"We will," Rachel drove home, epitomizing what it meant to have backbone. "Captain, they'll be cured. Don't allow yourself to dwell on anything other than that." She pulled herself together, sensing that he was trying to do the very same thing.

As disciplined as he could manage, Chandler responded, appreciating her fortitude coupled with her compassion. "Thank you, Rachel. You've been a rock through all of this and I can't tell you enough how much that means to…me." Not holding back, he kissed the top of her head and arched with the rolling of his battle-tested ship.

Rachel jerked her head to the side, smiling into his eyes that penetrated the depths of her soul. "It's been my consummate honor to serve…" Although initially hesitant, she blurted nevertheless—"Tom." And brushed one of his hands she'd raised with her lips. "Without all of your support, I'd have accomplished nothing."

She'd done it again, as easily as his little girl could make her mother laugh. Rachel put his mind at ease. "We make a good team."

Nodding, she knew that to be truth. "We do."

The captain took his time leaving.


	2. Chapter 2

_They_ weren't going to let her leave, these duplicitous captors. She kept asking, but the answer continued to be a firm, "No." She knew that by the looks she received, the hushed voices speaking her name, she was now their obstinate prisoner. "_You have got to be kidding me_!" It had been too many days since the separations. Too many questions left unanswered about what was really going on here in Amy Granderson's Baltimore, her stronghold, her select enclave, Avocet, 'The Crack House,' which it had been dubbed. The truth about this place continued to send shock waves through Rachel. She knew deep inside that what these scientists were perpetrating here wasn't right. They weren't trying to cure the masses, only those deemed worthy of living on, '_the noblesse_.' What was she to do, locked away here in solitary confinement? They hauled her out only when the scientists deemed her input for consultation purposes was necessary.

Alisha Granderson, Junior Officer of the Deck, Amy's daughter, had been removed from this small, one-desk office, since converted into a slapdash place for Rachel to lay her head, several days ago. She missed the younger woman's company fiercely. Rachel suspected that she had been given food, when she felt like calling it that, MREs, on account of Alisha. Not too much sustenance, though; keeping her hungry served their ulterior purpose, the research scientist surmised. Which it did, she was at their mercy, and they weren't letting her forget it. When she needed a restroom, she would be escorted by two tear gas mask-wearing men, bearing assault rifles. She never knew what to make out of them, having gotten the feeling on several occasions that they watched as she did her business, and, more…

Rachel sat on the edge of the empty, pitted desk, forlorn, idly twisting hair about her moist fingers, damp, fragrance-less strands. These spooky captors permitted she shower, but provided her with nothing to cleanse herself with. Water sufficed, tepid and hard. Towels were nonexistent, so soaking wet, she used whatever clothes they thought to provide her. Rachel pondered as her weighty thoughts blurred, fearing what the outcome of her imprisonment would mean for all those she had hoped to save. What had gone on aboard the _Nathan James_ seemed a memory that had happened years ago, not in a matter of weeks. The thoughts she entertained disturbed her, and that was putting it mildly. Having no idea what had become of the intrepid crew, the brave, young men and women under Captain Chandler's command, she worried endlessly. And what of the captain…Tom? Often, she felt as though he'd disappeared off the face of the earth. Her virile, enigmatic man, who constantly clouded her thoughts, snarled her emotions, whom she was missing. She was missing him terribly.

How many times had she relived their subversive kiss, meant to fool and abet, which had kindled passion, whether awake or in her dreams? She longed for the shelter of his powerful arms, his warmth and sympathy, his indomitable strength. The tease of his smile that did unspeakably delightful things to her heart.

"I pray you're all right," she spoke to the companionless room with a heavy sigh. "Where are you when I'm needing you most?"

Rachel shuddered, reflecting along such tenuous lines, completely certain that her detainment was a sure sign that all was amiss, so not good in this world turned upside down. An odd, demoralizing thought struck her, struck hard. Something she hadn't thought about in a very long time had wriggled its slimy way into her consciousness. As a young, dewy-eyed teen, she had once read a book, purely on her own, entitled, _How To Be Interesting_. Because, innately, as a lackluster schoolgirl, she thought of herself as dull, hopelessly doltish at every turn. As she tucked the drying strands she'd been toying with behind her ear, she recalled that, as a girlish adolescent, she'd been ever so shy. Not afraid of her own shadow shy, but bashful, when it'd come to being in the company of adolescent boys. Once, one of the prankish, conniving darlings had succeeded in adhering a sign to her back, which she'd discovered much later had read: 'Trip me, please; I haven't been anywhere exciting in ages…'

Rachel cringed, gathering herself up from the desk, despising what she'd been like back then. She thanked mercy for small favors that she no longer was a callow girl, but an intelligent, grown woman, who had one man thoroughly smitten, and another, utterly claimed by a wife, who gave clear indications that they'd become more than just friends. Sighing, Rachel sauntered over to the large tinted frameless glass window to peer out over nighttime Baltimore from this third-story vantage. Various lights, whether their source was actual fire, or electrical, dotted the immediate backdrop. In the distance, that plume of smoke never ceased. Reaching out with her mind, she thought about where Tom might be, and Tex too, for that matter.

She had never had a thing for a man with a beard; wasn't sure if she had one now. The scratch of Tex's facial growth beset her face and she couldn't help herself, smiling a little at a time. "The man has a way with words," she whispered, incapable of thinking in terms of past tense. His drawl languished in her ears. Sadness sluiced through her, painting the room a more somber shade of grey. "Wherever you are, brave man, my thoughts are with you. Godspeed." She shook herself, endeavoring to break herself out of this cask of gloom. "We'll meet again. Of that I'm confident."

Now, if only she could come up with a plucky method of foolproof escape, the yen for freedom clapping her roundly on her back. She would get clear of here, run and skulk to the pier, praying all the way that the _Nathan James_ hadn't left port by some miracle.

Knowing Tex, was he back, having reached higher ground, where he needed to be? Or, perhaps at this very moment, he too was being detained, at the hands of those who held her. What was happening in the midst of all this confusion? Would she ever find out what was really going on behind these walls? Locked away in this fashion, she pondered her fate and it wasn't a sanguine one. Unbidden, a sob escaped her lips, unable to banish the feeling that all was lost. Tex's chapped, yet pliant lips, scorching hers, convulsed back to life. Rachel plastered her fingertips to the crystal-clear glass, willing that she had answers and freedom.

And Tom…

"Are you safe? And your family?" Rachel rehashed aloud. "Where are you? Are you as I am? Locked away—might you be a mere few doors down? If I cry out, will you answer? Or, do they have you caged in their basement, somewhere? Waterboarding you, torturing you beyond reason, in an effort to extract vital information they believe you're withholding?" That insidious idea had her gasping, made her ill, and flashing back to what had passed between them during his vaccination, the mystical, keen locking of their eyes, which had been pleasurable, affirming, with unspoken sentiments and perceptions streaming from them all the while. How easy it was to get lost in the palatable machismo of Tom Chandler. He'd taken the needle, that had begun quivering in her hand from it and had firmly clutched that hand, saying nary a word. Her eyes had never strayed from his quizzical facial expression, as she wondered if and when he chose to kiss her, she would respond like a woman possessed.

"You enjoy this moment," he'd repeated, and she had obeyed as though listening to him and following through was something she'd been doing all her life. She wished it might have been the case, as she drew breath in, lungful after lungful, slowing the frantic rhythm of her heart. Tom was a man to lose herself in; he had given her another airtight hug instead of drugging her, rendering her brainless, with his mouth. And what better place should she conjure up the tender scenario than in here, where all appeared so bleak and sinister. Thinking about the totality of what Tom had become to her, what he would expect, roused hope and purpose.

Rachel, having become quite comfortable with talking to herself murmured, "I daresay you've become quite dear to me, Captain Tom Chandler. Whatever our fates, I will always hold you as such. But, I can't not see you again. We'll be together, once more. We must, Love…" She pried herself away from the window, pleased that she was no longer soaking wet, just a somewhat sticky damp and not feeling as alone. Scrabbling at imaginary chain-link fences, with no give, she moved through her enclosure like a cat, sleek and primed for taking action, after turning off the desk lamp. She stretched deliberately. Enough light shone through the window, though, to semi-illuminate her stale billet.

Easing herself down on the lumpy mattress with lint like pustules, Rachel lay flat, braiding her hands under her head and closed her eyes, fancying that Tom lay next to her on one side and Tex on her other. Of course, in real life, this would be considered kinky, she deliberated, blushing in the dark, with a sardonic grin creeping on her face. Such was not the lady's taste. Yet, in this strange world of arcane make-believe she'd been forced into, the three of them together like this was justifiable for all the right reasons. Her men, as different as night from day, stilled her jitters, blanketing her with security, and Eden.

Having her pick of men in this disease-ridden world, the _Nathan James_' master and Texas' quirky, whiskered man, who treasured a beauty's picture in a locket, would be it. Rachel's eyes shot open, reproving herself for forgetting another champion. "Oh…" she exhaled, her grin giving way, deepening into a blistering smile. She pictured him on the bridge, scowling down all foes.

"And you, oh valiant XO, too, of course. How could I have left you out?" Mike, along with her other courage-inspiring two, could be counted on for 'having her back.'

"Now, where to put you?" Rachel said, hatching. "Give way, no crowding. There's plenty of room…perhaps squarely on top." There was no pillow, so she hugged a tufted cushion from one of the upset office chairs she had disturbed in a rage, improvising. "Carry on, men. As you were." An hour passed and the sound of random gunfire rattled, shattering the stillness of the night. Rachel shifted, yawned unconsciously and slumbered on peacefully; in her dream, the _Nathan James_ sailed on in a cerulean blue sea. Tom, Mike and Tex were swabbing the deck and she was the breathtaking Odette, the vivacious princess, dancing _Swan Lake_ as they gaped at her, spellbound.


End file.
